


Windy Weather

by FlyingMachine



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, War, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: Caleb heals up in the aftermath of Simcoe's torture. Ben and Anna try to help, but Caleb is haunted by the knowledge he has betrayed both the ring and his closest friends.





	1. When the Wind Blows, We're All Together

_Windy weather, boys_  
_Stormy weather, boys_  
_When the wind blows, we’re all together, boys_  
_Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow_  
_Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady as she goes_  
"Fish of the Sea," traditional sea shanty

 

The wagon ride was going to finish him. Every jolt and bump in the road shot straight up Caleb’s spine and jarred the wounds across his chest and back. Blood trickled under his shirt, congealing and itching along his chest and belly. When he looked down at the crusted, blistered burn on his chest, he was overcome by the scent of hot steel and his own flesh searing away as Simcoe stroked his hair. He swallowed down hard on the urge to vomit and took a deep breath. The air was cold and fresh, smelling of pine forest and damp earth, with no hint of fire or filth in it. 

Beside him, Abe slept. He gripped his father's hand, and tear tracks had dried in the grime on his cheeks. He had bruises on his throat and sand in his hair. Caleb had thought he was dead when Ben had laid him in the cart. He had laid his hand on Abe's chest, relieved to feel its rise and fall. He left it there, and he didn’t know if it was to comfort Abe or himself.

He looked up at Ben. He had said nothing the whole long ride. There was nothing to say. Caleb could read the anger in the tense lines of his shoulders and back. Caleb was too tired to keep his head up, and he leaned it against the wagon seat. The sun was going down, and the cold air had begun to bite. Caleb wished he had a blanket for Abe.

Caleb lost time again. The sky was dark when he woke, stars sparkling in the clear night. The moon was so bright that he could see well even in the dense woods. Ben's breath made plumes in the air as he drove them along. He was missing his coat, and Caleb wondered if Ben was as cold as he felt. He shivered. He couldn't seem to get warm- the only heat in him came from his wounds. Something heavy lay across his chest. His fingers brushed wool: Ben's coat. It smelled like him and Caleb curled up under it a little. 

He needed to tell Ben what he’d confessed to Simcoe, but each time he tried to call up the memory of what he’d said, his mind went dark and he couldn’t remember anything except the agony of the brand on his chest. He had talked, he knew it. He remembered talking, shouting, trying to say anything except the names, but in the end he could only think of his friends, and he knew he had betrayed them. His stomach turned with guilt.

He pulled Ben’s coat tightly around himself and closed his eyes. He could talk to Ben later, when he’d had more time to order his thoughts. Perhaps with some time and rest his memory would clear, and he could give the full and accurate report he knew Ben would expect. For now he could sleep, and escape the discomfort of the cold and the cramped cart and his injuries. He called to mind thoughts of deep sea, calm and blue on a clear day. He let its stillness fill him until there was no room for Simcoe. The wagon creaked and swayed beneath him, rocking him back to uneasy sleep.

"Caleb.” A touch on his shoulder woke him and he panicked and braced for the blow he knew would come. His chest tightened with fear: what would Simcoe do to him now? He knew he couldn’t take much more of Simcoe’s interrogation, and he knew Simcoe knew it as well. Whatever was to come, it would likely be his end.

His vision cleared, and instead of a dark, damp cell he saw stars and cold night. He drew in deeps breaths of icy air and felt his racing heart slow. He was free, he reminded himself. He was safe. Ben knelt next to him in the wagon. He was frowning, a little line of worry between his brows. He'd reclaimed his coat and Caleb was freezing without it. Ben gripped Caleb's arm gently, his fingers chilly through Caleb's shirt. 

"Easy," Ben said. "It's alright. We're back at camp." Caleb took a deep breath and looked around. Abe and Judge Woodhull were gone.

"Where-?" he croaked, trying to ask where Abe was, and if he was safe.

"In the barn," Ben said, very quietly. "Can you stand?" Caleb nodded. He felt as though he would likely fall over but he was going to try anyway. Ben took his elbow and pulled him to his feet. His bruises had stiffened in the cold and they screamed at him when he straightened up. Ben caught him, an arm around his waist, and Caleb groaned as Ben jostled his sore ribs. Ben immediately eased his grip.

Ben jumped down from the wagon and reached up to give Caleb a hand down. Even the short jump was too far. His, cold, cramped legs gave out and black waves rolled over him as pain tore across his chest. Ben swore softly and Caleb felt a strong arm around his shoulders and under his knees, lifting him before he could collapse to the ground. Ben hitched him up against his chest and Caleb felt the soft wool of his coat under his cheek. He closed his eyes against the dizziness moving had caused. 

"You gonna carry me over the threshold?" Caleb mumbled. "I have to confess, Benny, this isn't how I imagined it."

“I'll be gentle with you," Ben replied, so seriously that it made Caleb laugh even though it hurt his chest. Good on his word, Ben barely jostled him as he carried him into the hospital tent.

 

The field hospital was quiet. Caleb lay on a creaky cot and he thought it was as nice as any feather bed. Even so, he wanted nothing more than to get up and walk outside, away from the scents of sickness and unwashed bodies. Every minute he lay here was time Simcoe could draw closer to his friends. 

Ben spread a blanket over him, mindful of the open wounds across his chest and shoulders.

"I'll get the doctor," he said. Caleb looked down at the mess Simcoe made of him and closed his eyes. He wanted to thank Ben for coming to get him, and then for getting him and Abe out of the mill and back to camp. He needed to tell Ben something else, too, but there were too many ears in the tent.

The surgeon was gentle in his examination but Caleb hated the touch. Ben watched over the doctor's shoulder. The corners of his mouth were tight with anger. Caleb hated that Ben could see his weakness, his betrayal, cut deep into his skin. He looked away, counting the stitches in the tent canvas as the doctor did his best to clean the wounds.

"I'll suture these for you tomorrow when the light's good," the surgeon said. Caleb barely heard him. He laid a clean bandage over the wounds and replaced Caleb's blanket. Sleep was pulling hard at him. A warm hand squeezed his shoulder and Caleb cracked his eyes open to see Ben looking down at him. He looked very tired, and the little worry line was back between his brows. 

“I’ll be alright, Tallboy,” Caleb said. He knew Ben wouldn’t leave until he was satisfied that Caleb was settled. “Go tell Anna about Abe, and his father. She’ll want to see them.” Ben nodded.

"Get some rest," he said. Caleb closed his eyes and dreamed of nothing.

 

Caleb wasn't opposed to mutiny in general, but the night spent holed up in the barn had done him no good. The fever had been creeping through him for hours. He ached with it and shook with chills. Anna had tucked a horse blanket around him sometime in the night. The pile of hay was comfortable enough, but he wished for his bed. Abe slept, curled up in the hay, and Anna kept watch over them both. Caleb drifted in and out of sleep, disturbed by dreams that filled him with a vague sense of dread. 

The creak of the barn door opening brought him back to full consciousness. Ben stepped inside, morning light spilling in behind him. He looked from Caleb to Anna and Abe. He saw some of the tension go out of Ben's shoulders when he saw them all safe, just as he’d left them.

"We're alright," Caleb said, dragging himself up out of the hay. He leaned his elbows on his knees to brace himself against the wave of lightheadedness that rolled over him. 

"Is it over?" Anna asked. Ben nodded.

"The leaders will be executed this afternoon," he said, his voice tight. Ben looked exhausted, and Caleb guessed he hadn't slept since he'd brought them back from the Lyme. He seemed distracted, fingers tapping anxiously on his sword hilt. Ben never could hold still when he had something on his mind.

"Will you be ready to take Abe and his father back to Setauket tonight?" Ben asked him.

"Yeah," Caleb said. Ben looked him over, and Caleb hoped Ben couldn't see how awful he still felt. He hardly felt fit for the task, but he owed it to Abe to help him return Judge Woodhull to his home. Besides, lying around wasn’t doing him any good as far as he could tell. It only gave him plenty of time to sit with his own thoughts, which always turned back to Simcoe.

As long as he kept moving, he could think about something other than the cold bite of Simcoe's bayonet as it slid into his skin, and how he had screamed, just as Simcoe had asked him to. He pulled himself up a little straighter, ignoring the pain of his wounds. There wasn't time for weakness.

 

Caleb spent the whole trip to Setauket and back wondering if he’d delivered Abe to his death. The notion that he had sealed Abe’s fate still weighed heavily on his mind when he returned to camp and ducked inside his tent for the first time in nearly a week.

His chest hurt. Abe had rowed them to Setauket, but rowing Mary and Thomas back had torn at the stitches. The wounds felt hot and tight and Caleb feared what they might look like underneath the bandages. Blood had stained his shirtfront in little patches. He left the bandages alone. He knew soaking them off would be its own painful ordeal, and he didn’t want to bother Ben or Anna to come help him do it just now. Slowly, each movement taking much longer than it should have, he removed his filthy clothes and threw them onto the pile in the corner. His washing was long overdue, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. 

The water from the wash pail was shockingly cold, but it felt good on his hot face. He wished he were strong enough to walk down to the river so that he could go for a freezing swim and a proper wash. Swimming always cleared his head.

He climbed into bed and wrapped up in his blankets. He was relieved to be alone, where nobody could see his sorry state. He knew no one would disturb him: Ben was busy in the aftermath of the mutiny and in a vile mood besides. He had ordered Caleb to take time to rest, and while Caleb would have normally ignored him he knew he needed the time to recover some of his strength. The work of the spy ring did not stop because he had been injured. He wanted to be back in the field as soon as possible.

The fever ebbed and flowed through him, leaving him drenched in sweat and shaking, his skin so sensitive that he could barely stand the weight of the blankets against him. He tossed them to the ground and without them, he shook so hard his teeth chattered. His throat ached with thirst, but the water pitcher seemed miles away. 

Caleb levered himself up on an elbow and swung his legs over the side of the cot. The wounds across his chest were hurting worse by the hour, and moving sent pain stabbing straight through him. Standing nearly did him in, and he sank back into his cot, so dizzy and weak that all he could do was curl back into himself and wait to die.

 

Caleb lost track of things after that. Hands touched him, cool and light on his chest and forehead. Voices murmured around him, but Caleb couldn't make out the words. Everything seemed hazy and unclear, hot and far away. 

And then Ben was there, frowning down at him. He looked anxious and upset, and Caleb wanted to tell him there was nothing to worry about, that he would be up in a minute, but he couldn't seem to get the words out right because Ben only ignored him. Caleb groaned as Ben shifted him to sit up, an arm around his waist. He felt weak and limp and he knew he would fall over if not for Ben’s arm behind him.

Ben held a cup to Caleb's mouth and the water tasted so sweet that Caleb didn't even care when it ran down his chin and stung in the wounds on his chest. The bandages were clean, and he wondered when that had happened. He drank deeply, emptying the cup twice. 

Ben eased him back down and Caleb shivered. He’d lost his blankets in the depths of his fever and missed them now that the chills had returned. Sitting up had made him dizzy and the water he’d drunk sat unpleasantly in his stomach. Ben spread a heavy quilt over him and Caleb found its weight comforting. The deep cold that had settled into his bones eased a little. The quilt smelled faintly of herbs and Caleb knew it had come from Anna’s cart. He had seen it folded at the foot of her bed, a reminder of home. He would have to thank her for it when he was feeling better.

Ben moved his chair to the side of his bed and settled in it. He had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up and he opened his notebook on his lap, clearly intending to sit a while and work. Caleb closed his eyes and listened to Ben's pencil scratching across the page.

"You gonna tell Washington about me?" he asked. The pencil stopped.

"I told him you were captured. He's not concerned with your dealings on the London trade, if that's what you're worried about," Ben said.

"I meant tell him that I blew all our covers." He imagined Ben standing before Washington, informing him that Caleb Brewster had exposed the entire chain of agents they had spent so much time carefully cultivating. He felt sick with guilt. He wondered how the court martial would go. Would he, too, be tied to a post and shot? Or perhaps Washington would have him hanged, a fitting fate for a failed spy. 

"Caleb, you didn't," Ben said gently and with such conviction that Caleb nearly believed him. Caleb wished he could believe him. He wanted Ben to be right. 

"He wanted me to scream," Caleb said. He dragged his eyes back open to look at Ben, so Ben would know he was telling the truth. "He wanted to know that he could make me. He did make me." Everything looked hazy, and Caleb guessed his fever was very high.

Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were dark blue and troubled when he looked down at Caleb. "I'm sorry I didn't come get you sooner," he said. 

"Not your fault, Ben," Caleb said. "Mine though, for getting snatched in the first place."

"Caleb, no." 

Caleb was too tired to argue, and his head was swimming. He closed his eyes. "Keep them safe," he mumbled. "Lord knows I didn't."

 

Caleb turned his head away and Ben knew he was asleep by the rhythm of his breathing. He absolutely burned with fever, and when Ben had come to check on him he had been raving at some unseen horror. He was calm now, and Ben hoped whatever dark dreams had troubled him would not return. He wanted Caleb to be well. 

Anna Strong's quilt covered Caleb's wounds, but Ben had seen them clearly while Caleb lay unconscious in the field hospital. He had sat at Caleb's side as the surgeon had stitched the wounds for a second time, his needle flashing in the sunlight, closing the lacerations with neat stitches. Horror at what Caleb had endured swept through him, leaving him unspeakably angry. The feeling coalesced down into a knot of rage and sadness in his chest and remained there, an ugly thing that ached under his breastbone. 

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. It did nothing to ease the headache that throbbed behind his eyes. He had barely slept since Caleb's disappearance, as one crisis had followed another. Exhaustion dragged at him and he struggled to think with the clarity he needed. The immediate needs of his friends and the army had pulled him from his regular duties and he was far behind on the endless requisitions, reports, and letters that had piled on his desk in his absence.

The paperwork on his lap was uninspiring; each requisition was a small battle as he tried to obtain the money to pay, clothe, and feed his troopers. He leafed through the most recent reports: no letters from his father, Culper Junior or his other eyes in the field, only requests for forage, fresh horses, black powder, bullets, guns, uniforms. 

There was little he could do for Caleb except let his fever burn itself out, and almost nothing he could do for his troops either, uniformed and otherwise. He felt useless. He hated how the Army suffered while the politicians in Philadelphia wasted time with petty arguments amongst themselves. 

Caleb slept peacefully, and Ben was relieved that his distressed, feverish ranting had subsided so that he could rest. He looked absently around Caleb's tent. Caleb's quarters always tended towards comfortable disorder, but in the past few days they had taken a sharp turn towards slovenly. Unwashed dishes had been piled on his tiny writing desk, and a heap of dirty clothes took up one corner. Ben realized he had more important things to do than approve supply requisitions. He stood up and pulled on his coat. If he could not be useful in his post, he could at least be useful as a friend.

 

In his campaign trunk, Ben had a blank notebook of fine quality and a set of good silverware that he had captured from some British dragoons during a recent skirmish. He had intended to send them with Caleb for his dealings across the Sound, but now he had a better use for them. He wrapped them carefully and tucked them into the heavy basket of laundry he had collected from Caleb’s tent.

The weather had turned cold again, and the icy wind cut right through Ben's coat as he walked through the camp. At the sutler's cart, Anna worked alone, measuring coffee beans into a small sack. 

"Good day, Mrs. Strong," he said, startling Anna. She looked up at him, then quickly around, making certain no one nearby could overhear them. She eyed the heavy basket of laundry in his arms and raised an eyebrow. 

"If you think I'm doing your washing now, you're mistaken, Major," she said coolly. Ben had been expecting such a response. 

Ben sat the basket down and retrieved the notebook and silverware from where he had hidden them amongst the dirty clothes. He unwrapped them laid them on the writing desk that served as a counter. Good paper was a valuable commodity, and the silver would be an easy trade for something more useful.

"These were captured from a British patrol," Ben told her. "I hope you will accept this in trade for the laundry." He felt awkward asking, and Anna propped her hands on her hips and looked down at the overflowing basket.

"I suppose that’s a fair trade,” she said, sounding doubtful after a long moment of consideration.

"It's good silver--" Ben began, but he saw that her eyes were sparkling and she had failed at hiding her smile. Ben had the distinct impression that she found something very funny and he realized she was teasing him. "Thank you," he said quickly, before she found something else to tease him about.

"How's Caleb?" Anna asked, and her expression became serious once more.

"Resting," Ben said.

"He needs it," Anna said. "Has he told you any more about what happened?"

Ben shook his head. He doubted Caleb would appreciate him sharing with Anna what he had confessed in the depths of his fever. 

"I've no right to ask," Ben said. Anna gave him a skeptical look.

"Maybe you should," she said. “You’re someone he trusts.” She scooped out a generous measure of coffee beans and twisted them neatly in a square of clean rag. She handed them over to Ben.

"Anna, the trade was for the laundry only," Ben said. Coffee was a prized good in the camp, too valuable to simply give away. 

"Ben, you're the only person in this camp who barters for his laundry.”

"You should be paid for the work," he said. Anna chuckled bitterly.

"No one in this camp's been paid for anything in months," she said. "What does another basket of dirty shirts matter? And you look like you could use it.” She looked at him closely. “Have you slept since the mutiny?” Ben took half a step back, away from her scrutiny. He picked up the coffee and tucked it safely into his pocket.

"Thank you, Mrs. Strong."

Anna smiled at him. "It's kind of you to bring Caleb's things," she said. "I'll have these ready for you by tomorrow."

 

Caleb's fever consumed him for the better part of two days. When it finally broke it left him weak, clammy, and starving. His wounds still ached, but with the hurt of healing instead of the heat of infection. He was tired of lying in bed.

Caleb braced himself and sat up slowly, feeling the wounds on his chest strain against the stitches. The damaged muscles trembled with even the small exertion of levering himself upright. He pulled in a deep breath and leaned his elbows on his knees while he waited for the pain to calm. He drew the blanket around his shoulders. 

He was surprised to find that the chair beside his cot held a plate of biscuits and a cup of water. He wondered who had left it, since he hadn't heard anyone come in. His stomach growled, and he reached for the plate of rations. It was double the usual fare, and Caleb devoured all of it.

He still felt weak, but he pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the back of the chair next to his bed to steady himself. Washing up was a slow business, but someone had filled the pitcher on his washstand with clean water so that he didn’t have to fetch his own. He noticed that the pile of dirty clothes he’d been neglecting was gone, and when he opened his chest, he saw that his clothes had been washed and neatly folded. He vaguely remembered Ben and Anna looking in on him while he'd been ill, and he realized that they must have also been responsible for the clean laundry and his breakfast. 

Caleb was glad to be able to dress in his own clothes instead of someone else’s borrowed shirt and britches. Pulling his shirt over his head made his eyes water, but he was determined to leave his tent and at least take a walk around the camp to find out what he had missed. He thought the rest of the army might appreciate if he did so dressed.

The short walk to Ben's tent left him out of breath, and his wounds had begun to throb again by the time he ducked inside. Ben stood at the table, pouring a cup of coffee. Its rich scent filled the small space. Ben looked up and smiled when he saw Caleb. It was a true smile that went all the way to his eyes, and Caleb felt suddenly self-conscious. He couldn't think why Ben would be happy to see him, after all the trouble he'd caused. 

"Good to see you up and about," Ben said. He sat down the coffeepot and held out the steaming mug to Caleb. Caleb accepted the cup and blew on the coffee to cool it. Ben always drank his coffee pitch- black and scalding, and Caleb wrapped his hands around the mug to warm them. Ben poured himself a cup and took a seat at his desk.

"How's Woody? Any good news?" Caleb asked. He was anxious to get back to the work on the plan he and Ben and Anna had been making to capture Arnold. 

"Nothing. Only requisitions, pay requests, scouting reports... the only thing the army isn't short on is paperwork," Ben said. A small mountain of papers had overtaken Ben's desk. A stack leaned precariously by his elbow and Ben’s fingers were stained with ink. Caleb looked over his shoulder at the ragged-looking report Ben was reading.

"Looks like whoever wrote that got dead drunk and then dropped it in the mud for good measure," he said. 

"That's probably the truth," Ben replied. He handed it over to Caleb. "Can you read any of that?"

Caleb squinted at the cramped, sloppy handwriting, made worse by the letter's poor condition. Standing was making him lightheaded, and he supposed his body wasn't quite used to it yet after lying in bed for so long. He sat heavily on Ben's bed and sipped at his coffee as he tried to read. The words seemed to slip in and out of his brain, and he found himself reading the same sentence over and over. His mind felt filled with damp wool, cloudy and thick. Frustrated, he handed the letter back to Ben.

"Sorry, Ben. I think it's hopeless." Ben's eyes searched him and he frowned a little. Caleb knew what he saw: a pale, ill, wounded man. He was no longer an asset to their cause but a liability, and he hated himself for it.

"Are you sure you should be up?" Ben asked him, watching him closely. Caleb got to his feet, wincing as the wounds pulled. He forced himself to stand up straight instead of curl in around the pain in his chest. He felt restless, unable to sit still. A strange sense of uneasiness had followed him since he woke. Even now, safe in Ben’s tent, the feeling weighed heavy on him.

"Just going for a little walk. Time to catch up on all the gossip," Caleb said. "It's a fine day, Tallboy, too bad you're stuck in here." He clapped Ben's shoulder as he walked out of his tent.

Caleb followed the road out of camp and into the woods. He felt a little better, at least here no one could see how badly his hands shook, or how it hurt to stand up straight. He sat down under a big oak and looked up at the bare branches. 

Simcoe had not left him since the day and night he’d spent interrogating him. If Caleb closed his eyes he could see him, leering at him as he wiped Caleb’s blood from his knuckles onto a deeply-stained handkerchief, smiling that gentle smile that did not reach his eyes as he asked over and over for the names. Caleb had bitten nearly through his lip so as not to speak. 

And then it hadn’t mattered, because Simcoe had laid hot steel on his skin and Caleb had done everything Simcoe had asked of him. He stared up at the dead tree and tried to remember what he had said, but he could only think of the glint of firelight on the bayonet and the way Simcoe’s eyes had lit when he'd screamed.

Caleb walked a little farther every day after that, until the exercise no longer left him winded. He took a pistol and his tomahawk with him and used the trees for target practice. He practiced until he ran out of shot and powder, and yet his shots went wild more often than they hit true. His chest ached as it always did, and Caleb wondered what use he was to the cause.


	2. The Voyage is Long and the Winds Don't Blow

Anna sat at the little cramped writing desk in the sutler's cart, deliberating over her half- finished letter to Selah. She didn’t send most of the letters she wrote; they were too full of information that would get someone killed if they were read on the road. But she had been trying to write him more often, just to tell him the general happenings in camp. 

A sharp knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. It startled her- she wasn't expecting anyone. She folded her letter to Selah and put it in her pocket to finish later. She opened the door and found Ben standing on the step. For a moment she didn't recognize him. He was dressed in a infantryman's uniform coat that fit him poorly, his hair hidden under a soft wool cap that she strongly suspected belonged to Caleb. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, for she knew immediately something was. A tight knot twisted itself up in her stomach. Perhaps he had received word from Abe, or worse, word of Abe's death.

“Beddows and I are rowing across the river to pick up Arnold. No one else knows we’re going,” he said. 

“Where’s Caleb?” Anna asked. She looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Caleb riding with him. She didn’t like the idea of Ben going into New York, especially after Caleb's kidnapping and then the ambush in Lyme. Ben’s mouth compressed into a thin line, which Anna had learned was often the only outward sign of his deep anger.

“He’s too drunk to sail,” he said shortly. Anna felt something cold spread out under her ribs. She knew Caleb was not well but had hoped it would pass as his wounds healed. She had noticed a recent tension between him and Ben as well, but dismissed it as their own business.

“Where is he?” Anna asked.

“Sitting under the big tree outside the camp, drinking himself blind,” Ben snapped. “If he comes back to camp-”

“I’ll see that he makes it to his tent,” she said, and saw him relax slightly.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. She knew that a deep undercurrent of worry ran beneath his anger, and wondered what had transpired between him and Caleb.

“Safe travels,” she said, and hugged him. She knew Caleb would have done the same, were he present. She waited until Ben had ridden away before she wrapped herself in her shawl and walked down the dusty camp road, toward the big oak over the ridge.

Caleb was just where Ben had said he would be, slumped down against the tree. He was asleep, or unconscious. He reeked of alcohol and unwashed sweat. Under the flush of liquor, he looked pale and ill. He had a fresh scar at the corner of his eye and faint bruising still along his cheekbone. It gave his skin a green-yellow tinge, which only contributed to how poor he looked. Anna dropped to one knee and laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn't stir.

“Caleb,” she called. He dragged his eyes open and fixed her with a hazy look.

“Hey there, pretty Annie,” he slurred.

“You need to get up and get back to camp,” she told him firmly. “Enough of this for today.” Caleb looked at her sleepily, with the wide gaze of the very drunk. His warm brown eyes looked glassy and vague instead of sparkling with their usual hint of mischief and good humor. They were rimmed with red, as though he hadn't been sleeping.

“Benny-boy’s real mad at me,” he said. Anna stood and offered him her hand.

“Come on, up with you,” she said. Caleb stared at her open hand for a long moment, as if he was unsure about what to do with it. At last he took her hand and she pulled him to his feet, where he stumbled and swayed until she got a shoulder under him and an arm around his waist. He leaned into her, tripping and wobbling as they walked back to camp. She had never seen Caleb this drunk. 

“I was s’posed to go pick up Arnold… n’ Woody,” Caleb drawled as they walked.

“And why didn’t you?” Anna asked him, as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation. 

“Couldn’t,” was all Caleb said. He fell silent and leaned more of his weight on her. Anna hitched him up against her hip. Without thinking, she steadied him with a hand on his chest and felt him wince, his whole body recoiling away from her touch so violently he nearly lost his balance. She dropped her hand immediately and grasped his arm instead.

“I’m sorry,” she said, watching him for any more signs of pain.

“S’alright,” he said. “Didn’t really hurt too much.” She frowned at him. His reaction certainly suggested otherwise.

"If you fall, that's where you're sleeping tonight," she said as they made slow, halting progress. "I can't carry you back to camp." Caleb laughed at that, and the sound of it surprised her.

"I've got no doubt you could put me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, easy," he said, and Anna couldn't help but smile when she imagined doing just that. 

"Don't make me try it," she said as he stumbled again and stepped on her skirt.

They got more than a few looks as they walked slowly into the camp, but Anna didn’t care. She could only imagine what the gossip would be about her tomorrow. She didn’t care about that either, so long as it kept her true actions concealed. Caleb’s head lolled against her shoulder as she practically dragged him into his tent. 

“Think they’ll talk about us?” Caleb asked as she maneuvered him inside.

“I’m sure they will, if they’re not already,” Anna replied. She led him to his bed and eased him down onto it. 

He struggled out of his coat and boots and tossed them in a pile before flopping back into his cot. Anna saw him wince as he lay down and knew the wounds still bothered him. His shirt gaped open and she could see the stained bandages around his chest. He would have to do something about those, when he was feeling better. She sat the empty wash pail on the ground by his bed and saw him jump at the noise. She wondered if he would remember any of this in the morning.

“You’re going to feel awful tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. She spread his blanket over him and he pulled it up it to cover his chest.

“Already feel like shit. Where’s Ben?” he mumbled.

“You know where he is,” Anna said, hesitant to speak openly of Ben’s whereabouts.

“He left.”

“Yes,” she said.

“He’s real mad. Gonna have me court martialed,” Caleb slurred, his voice cracking. Anna blinked at the mention of a court-martial, wondering just what had been said under the tree. 

“You can talk to him when he comes back,” she said gently, and that seemed to calm him. She should sit with him, she thought, to make sure he didn’t choke if he was sick. Caleb had a small desk, nearly buried under a pile of equipment and loose papers. She could sit and finish her letter to Selah.

“You c’n go, I’m alright,” he said. “Ain’t proper for you to be in here, you know," he said, as though he was sharing some great secret. He gave a her a little smile, a faint shadow of his usual grin that just barely crinkled the corners of his eyes. Anna laughed bitterly as she lit the stub of a candle on his desk.

"Which part isn't proper? The part where I dragged you back to camp, or the part where I put you to bed, or the part where I sat here all evening to make sure you didn't choke on your own vomit? What's not proper about looking after a friend who's ill?" she asked. Caleb groaned and curled up on his side.

" 'M not ill," he mumbled. Anna sighed.

"Alright," she said, not pursuing the argument. He didn't say anything else, and she thought he was asleep.

She cleared his desk of a pair of dueling pistols, a box of sweet-smelling tobacco, and a tin cup that contained a film of old coffee. She rescued a precariously- tilted inkwell from the far corner of the desk and took her letter from her pocket. She smoothed it flat and read over what she had written. She knew she would never send this letter, but the act of writing cleared her mind and gave her something to focus on besides her concern for her friends and fellow spies. 

She missed Setauket, and she often wished she were sitting by the fire at Strong Manor instead of sleeping in the cold. She wondered if it would even feel like her home, were she to return. Ben and Caleb had told her that the British soldiers had badly damaged the house and grounds when they had fortified it, and she knew that the burning of the supplies there likely hadn't improved the condition of her former estate. Even so, she felt little sense of loss. 

For some time now she had known that even if she were to return to Setauket with Selah, she would never again be satisfied with running his tavern and his house. Here in camp, trading goods and working with the ring, she had a purpose, even if it was small. She wondered if she would ever do something so important again. She thought knew the answer, and it filled her with a sense of dread. She pushed the feeling away; she did not have to consider it just now. Selah had not recalled her to Philadelphia, and there was still much work to be done for the ring, and for her friends.

 

Caleb considered the pistol in his hand. It was a fine weapon, well-balanced, inlaid with silver down the barrel. He bit off the end of a cartridge and poured shot and powder down the barrel, then rammed the ball home. His hands were steadier lately, and he completed this work with smooth, well-practiced movements. Hours of target practice alone in the woods had him shooting as true and straight as he ever had, but Caleb had yet to test himself when the shot would matter. The quiet and calm of the woods was nothing like the chaos of a skirmish or open battle.

Caleb set the pistol's hammer down to half-cock and tucked it into his belt, alongside his tomahawk and hunting knife, both carefully whetted. He didn't see a need for much else besides his blanket and a few rations, and his shot bag and powder horn. He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and blew out the candle. 

Outside his tent it was still dark, but the sky was lightening along the horizon. He walked past Ben’s tent and hesitated. He was unsure of where they stood: Ben hadn’t court martialed him, but they hadn’t spoken since his resignation. If he was honest with himself, he was avoiding Ben. He could still see clearly the look of shock and disappointment on Ben’s face when he’d resigned.

Anna’s cart was closed, and Caleb did not disturb her. He felt guilty for taking off without telling her, but he knew that she would understand. The fewer people who knew about his mission, the better, and he knew Anna would say that herself. Wildflowers grew along the edge of the road, bright black-eyed susans, bachelors' buttons and daisies. Caleb picked a handful and laid them carefully on Anna's front step. 

"Caleb Brewster!" Anna's quiet voice made him jump. He turned to find her standing behind him, holding a lantern that illuminated her face. Her dark eyes glittered in the dim light, and she propped a hand on her hip, clearly expecting an answer from him.

"You're sneaking off," she stated, disbelieving, as she looked him over, taking in the guns in his belt and the rucksack on his shoulder.

"I-" he began, stumbling to explain himself.

"Sneaking off," she finished for him. "Did you think no one would notice?"

"I-" he tried again.

"I noticed," she said. "Is this how you mean to leave? Sneaking out in the night so that you wouldn't have to answer to any of us? I suppose you haven't told Ben you're leaving either?" She gave him a knowing look. Caleb was surprised at the anger in her voice. He felt heat prickle under his collar. When she laid it out like that, he did feel badly about taking off. 

"I've got to go pick up Culper," he said, hoping to forestall an argument. "I can't do that here in camp." He saw Anna go still at the mention of Abraham, and she looked away for a moment.

"I know you'll bring him back," she said at last and Caleb nodded. 

" 'Course I will." 

"And yourself," she said.

"Do my best," he said. She gave him a long look, like she didn't quite believe him. Caleb held out his arms and she hugged him so tightly that he felt his ribs creak. Her hair was soft against his cheek.

"Goodbye, Anna. I'll tell Abe you say hello. Keep Benny out of trouble, at least 'til I get back."

"I'll do my best," she said, echoing his own reply. She kissed him on the cheek, and let him go. 

 

The trees along the camp road stood dark and quiet in the early morning cold, and the only sound was the soft crunch of Caleb’s boots down the road. The walk was pleasant enough, and he drew deep breaths of the clean air. His wounds had mostly healed, and didn’t pain him as he walked. 

The sun was fully up when he heard the dull thumping of hooves behind him. He reached for his pistol, then relaxed when he saw the blur of blue barreling towards him. The rider wheeled recklessly around the corner, kicking dust as he tore down the road. A little twist of apprehension tightened in Caleb’s stomach. He had hoped to be long gone before Ben discovered his absence.

“Caleb!” Ben shouted. Caleb continued walking until Ben pulled up alongside him. Ben slowed his horse and dismounted before he’d even stopped moving. 

“Slow down, Tallboy. I’m not running off anywhere,” Caleb said. Ben gave him a sharp look that cut straight through him.

“Of course not, you’ve already resigned,” Ben said, a bitter edge in his voice. Caleb sighed. He knew Ben had come to talk. 

He fell into step with Caleb, leading his horse alongside. He looked unhappy, and Caleb supposed he had contributed to that. Uncomfortable silence fell between them. Caleb tried to think of something to say. There were many things he needed to tell Ben, but he couldn’t seem to put any of them into words. 

"I suppose Anna sent you after me?" Caleb said at last. He wasn't really surprised, he figured Anna had told Ben of his departure straight after they had spoken. It was the only way Ben could have caught up with him so quickly. Ben raised an eyebrow but said nothing, confirming Caleb's suspicion. 

“You could have told me you planned to resign,” Ben said. He gave Caleb an intense blue look, and Caleb rubbed the nape of his neck. He was glad they were walking, so he could look down the road instead of at Ben. 

“Well the thing was, I hadn’t planned to,” Caleb said. It was the truth: not until he had spoken with Mary had he known what he needed to do. "I'm sorry about springing that on you in front of Colonel Hamilton, Benny, but I knew you'd try to talk me out of it if I came to you alone. Or that you'd try to come along," he added.

"I see," Ben said flatly, and Caleb knew he had been right about Ben's intentions. Caleb let the silence stretch out between them, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the road. 

Ben hadn't said much to him since their argument under the tree. Caleb winced at the memory. Ben's hands had been cool against his flushed cheeks as he forced Caleb to look at him, and it had seemed that Ben had looked straight down into him and seen the desolation Simcoe had branded on his soul. Ben had _known,_ and Caleb was sure that Ben would never see anything in him again besides Simcoe's destruction.

“I think I know the way,” Caleb said to Ben. “Or were you going to follow me all the way to Virginia? Washington might miss you." The corner of Ben’s mouth lifted in a faint smile, but it quickly faded.

“I came to apologize,” he said. Startled, Caleb stopped walking in the middle of the road. He had expected Ben to try to convince him to stay, or even to serve him with a court-martial for neglecting his duties, but he hadn't expected an apology. 

"I'm all the things you said, and more," Caleb said. "You were right to holler at me like you did."

"No, I wasn't. I acted in anger, and wrongly," Ben said.

"You did what was best for the cause, Ben. That ain't wrong."

"No, Caleb. I was so blinded by the work that I neglected the people doing it," Ben said, meeting Caleb's eyes. There was anger in his voice, but Caleb knew it was because Ben was angry with himself. He looked solemn, and Caleb didn't think he'd ever seen greater regret. Caleb laid a hand on his shoulder. The wool of Ben's coat was soft under his fingers, and he could feel the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. He wasn't angry with Ben for what he'd said that day, not anymore. 

"Maybe we should forgive each other, then, yeah?" Caleb said quietly, his eyes not leaving Ben's. Ben's eyes widened slightly, as though he had not expected Caleb to forgive him at all, let alone so easily.

"Yes," Ben said without hesitation. His shoulders relaxed under Caleb's hand, and Caleb felt a tightness in his own chest unclench. Ben had seen Caleb’s weakness, the tremor in his hands that kept him from shooting straight, the whisper in his head that threatened to overwhelm him in every quiet moment. Ben _knew,_ and Ben still trusted him to find Abe and bring him back. The knowledge brought him a sense of peace he hadn't felt since before Simcoe had tortured him.

“I guess we’re all square then,” Caleb said. Ben nodded, and Caleb knew he was still unhappy. He did wish Ben could come with him, he would have liked the company. He had spent nearly his entire time in the army working with Ben, and it seemed strange to part ways now, when the end of things seemed very close. He was glad Ben had followed him, even if it was to bid him a final farewell. 

“I’ll see you later, Tallboy. Maybe in Virginia. Maybe New York.” 

Ben held out his hand, and Caleb did not clasp it. Instead, he pulled Ben into a hug as he had done every other time he'd left for the past five years. Ben hugged him tightly, and whatever uneasiness lay between them disappeared as though it had never been there at all.

Caleb had done all of the things that he needed to do to rescue Abraham before. He had sailed a boat and walked many miles. He had crossed the lines unseen and killed the enemy. He would do all of these things again to see Abe safe. He would do these things for Mary and Thomas, and Anna, and Ben. 

"Take care of yourself," Ben said. 

"Is that an order?" Caleb asked. "Because I don't have to take those from you anymore."

"A request," Ben said. Caleb grinned at him.

"I'll be just fine."

He didn't know if he'd spoken the truth. It was a long way to Virginia, and somewhere along the road, under the cool shadows of the tall pines, he figured he would find out.


End file.
